


Cacciatore

by hollycrowned



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Destruction, Established Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Fantasies Involving Destruction of a Metropolitan City, Gore, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Jealousy, M/M, Murder, Murder Husbands, Natural Disasters, Obsessive Behavior, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Will Graham is a Cannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 14:08:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18592828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollycrowned/pseuds/hollycrowned
Summary: The view of Florence stretched beyond buildings to mountains that faded blue, seeming to evaporate into the sky. From elsewhere in the garden, a chorus of strings sang an aria. Will gulped his wine and tried to imagine the shallow valley before them empty of anything but the Arno.“I can see why you love it.”“You don’t love it yourself.”“I suppose any love I have for it exists in me because you love it,” Will dared.





	Cacciatore

**Author's Note:**

> prompt fill: for maydei, who requested "hannigram + italy (either pre- or post-fall, or AU. whatever your heart desires)". this fill went some unexpected places and I had a wild time practicing writing these two. thank you Luc!
> 
> please read the warnings before proceeding! and feel free to correct my bogus Italian.
> 
> you can send me prompts on tumblr (hollycrowned), but please read the rules; you can find a link to the rules post on my about page (check under 'Projects'). you can also find me on twitter (holly_crowned). kudos are much appreciated and I love comments! thanks for reading <3

Paris was a disaster.

“Your idea,” said Will, once their battered bodies were safely on a train taking them out of France. He rubbed his bruised wrist and stared out the window at the rushing winter scenery. Across from him, Hannibal sorted their documents through a black eye. “All of it.”

“We’ve been through worse. You enjoyed the visit, for the three days it lasted.”

“Three days,” Will echoed, shaking his head. “Where are we going?”

“Away.” He sighed when Will gave him an exhausted glare. “We’ll transfer in Lyon. If we make it, the next train will take us to Milan.”

“We’ll make it. What’s in Milan?”

“Many call it fashion.”

Will briefly thought about kicking him, but it was such a miracle that both of them were whole and in the same train car, he let it go. “No plan, then?”

“Only to stay out of trouble. We both need time to heal. After that, no. It would be prudent to move again as soon as we’re able, but as of now I have no destination in mind.” He tucked his own papers into his jacket and passed the rest. When Will took them, Hannibal caught his wrist with gentle hands and turned it over, inspecting. “Do you?”

Will looked out the window again. “Show me Florence,” he said.

-

More than he was glad to escape Paris alive, he had been looking forward to Florence with a feeling of vicious anticipation he had kept even from Hannibal. Years old, it had been palliated by their visit to Bedelia, enough so that Will had not felt frenzied to get to Florence—but the thought of him going there with Hannibal, _finally_ , brought it flooding back with a new sense of victory, like the checkmate at the end of a long game.

Beyond that, they’d been themselves with each other long enough that it felt safe to go back. There was no bitterness or reproach between them this time, but an implicit agreement: they stayed together. Even Paris could have gone worse if they hadn’t been together as long as they had. Will counted on that as they left Milan for Tuscany.

They settled in an apartment with a view of the Arno, just as winter started to fade. He had barely seen any of the city on his first visit, focused as he had been on Hannibal, but being there felt familiar. Now, he wanted Hannibal to show him everything, and for his part, Hannibal seemed as eager to share Florence with Will as Will was to learn from him. They started with the gallerias, then the palazzos and basilicas; Hannibal recited the history of the city, detailed the lives of the masters who had lived there, and showed Will places he frequented as a young man. It wasn’t until they were in Santa Croce, standing before Machiavelli’s tomb, that a snag caught somewhere in Will’s mind.

Hannibal stood next to him, speaking in elementary Italian—Will was learning. As Hannibal recounted more about his possible ancestor, it struck Will, with a strange shock that cemented him to the floor, how often Hannibal had looked upon the tomb, alone.

“Will?”

“ _Sto bene_ ,” said Will. His hands opened and closed, trying to grasp the notion. “ _Continua per favore_.”

Hannibal guided him around the basilica, occasionally speaking for the art. Will followed his gaze and, within himself, tried and tried to put words to whatever his mind had just realized. _Of course he’s been here without me_ , Will thought, unsettled by the bizarre gravity of the moment. _We’re here now, aren’t we? Aren’t we here now?_

He felt so suddenly uncertain, and so close to _being_ alone, he reached out and touched Hannibal’s arm. The feeling didn’t go away.

After Santa Croce, Will asked Hannibal to show him more. Perhaps it would stop with the art. They ambled down thin sidewalks on narrow streets, across crowded piazzas, from restaurant to museums to fashion houses. Whenever Will asked him for a story from his youth, Hannibal gladly obliged, hiding nothing and clearly fond. Even when remarking how the city had changed, he glowed.

It was easy enough for Will to reflect the beam back. Florence was beautiful, he couldn’t help but be warmed by the loose happiness Hannibal exuded, and it pleased him to learn what Hannibal shared with him. None of it assuaged him—if anything, it made his mood worse. He struggled to articulate, even to himself, why.

The more he saw Hannibal at home in the city, the more it chafed at the back of his mind.

-

As the chafing became a sore, Will suggested they hunt in Florence together.

He knew it would be wiser to wait longer, after how quickly their trip to Paris had fallen apart, but he kept going back to that moment in Santa Croce. He tried to assign words to the mix of feelings and images that whirled around in his head. Hannibal wasn’t ignoring him. He didn’t feel ignored. He was paying mind to something other than Will, that much was clear—but that had happened before. There was something else.

It wasn’t anything he wasn’t seeing; he saw it every time they were out together. It was a notion within his own mind, about Hannibal, that was too nebulous to term. Whenever he saw Hannibal ensconced by Florence, it tugged, like a string looped through a hole in the space between his eyes.

In short order his stream of consciousness connected the notion to images that reeled through his mind’s eye: the crimes of _Il Mostro_ , even the ones he had only ever imagined. Watching Hannibal commit them with aplomb; visualizing himself committing those crimes but finding impossible to fully grasp feeling so comfortable in any corner of Florence. They didn’t match.

A year ago it might have bothered him to think that killing together, before anything else, would bring him any kind of assurance. Now, his palms itched in a way they never had before.

Hannibal put up little resistance. “We should start subtle,” he said, “as we did in Marseilles.”

“You haven’t cooked for me since Marseilles. I miss it.”

That earned him kisses. “Then I shall cook for you. But perhaps our first should be in Fiesole or Scandicci. Not so close to home.”

“I want it to be here,” said Will. “With you. Please?”

It was settled.

Finding a target was easy. They blended into the stands of the next Fiorentina game and Hannibal selected the first rude fan who didn’t badly reek of cigarette smoke. Will, somewhat disguised and playing the lush, started a conversation. He liked the pick enough. He had the distinct feeling from the smug way the man snorted at Will’s poor Italian that he was unpleasant at home.

From the way the hair on his nape bristled, he knew with gross satisfaction that Hannibal was watching him act.

Once the game let out, Will offered to take the man for a drink. They stumbled through the confusion and into silent alleys, further and further from the crowd, until Hannibal crept out of the shadows and dosed the man with a tranquilizer.

After that came suffocation. Will watched.

When Hannibal lowered the man to the ground, Will sighed, some of the awful tension in him unraveling, like the release of a death grip. The execution this far was perfect, their timing flawless—but at the moment, not getting caught was barely his concern. For the first time since Santa Croce, Hannibal felt with him. In time with him. Unable to walk away from him.

 _That’s it_ , he thought, kneeling next to the body. _That's what this is_.

This must be how people get sloppy.

“ _Fegato e reni_ ,” said Hannibal, passing him tools. “And ham it up a bit. We’re a novice organ harvester in a hurry, tonight.”

“Being careful,” Will said, mostly to the dead man.

“For now,” Hannibal replied. His tone made Will look up.

Hannibal was gazing at the corpse with a curious glint Will had only seen a handful of times. There would be no elaborate display of this body, but Hannibal was imagining the possibility—maybe several. Before Will could ask what he saw, he turned away.

Will blinked several times, as if dispelling floaters, and went back to work. As he cut, he tried to focus on the warmth of the blood, the slip of the innards against his hands, how they barely shook anymore. He was peripherally aware of Hannibal watching him while he staged the scene, then vanishing briefly to retrieve the motorbike he’d hidden around a corner.

As he cut each organ free and put them aside in a nest of plastic wrapping, his attention stuck in them like a splinter.

“Hannibal?”

He reappeared. Will held the organs out, kidneys and liver cradled in plastic, needing without knowing why to see Hannibal take them.

“ _Grazie, cuore mio_ , look at you.” Hannibal took Will’s bloodied wrists and drew him in. Will’s own heart skipped.

“What do you see?”

Hannibal kissed him. “ _Firenze_. The future.”

Will froze. Hannibal plucked the the organs from his hands and left him there. He stored them in a small icebox secured to the motorbike. “Quickly,” he said.

Automatically, Will helped to finish cleaning up the scene as they had planned. Will wiped his hands on a towel he shoved into his pocket to be burned with their clothes later. A sick clog stuck in his throat. Hannibal started the bike.

Will looked back at the body and thought, with dismal certainty, that he was doomed by what he’d found there.

-

After that hunt, Will started to walk Florence alone.

Maybe he had overreacted in Santa Croce. It wasn’t that as though Hannibal had abandoned him—he remembered isolation, and this wasn’t it. But from that moment in front of the tomb, Will had felt separated from Hannibal in a way he hadn’t since their fall. A step out of synch with him. A half-beat out of time.

So he walked. This had all started with Florence, after all. Something about being there was making even the minutiae of their differences glaringly apparent, and it was knocking Will off-kilter. Killing the man from the game had shown him that much. He had gotten back in line with Hannibal, right until the moment Hannibal wandered away again.

So Will walked. He tried to follow the shape of Hannibal through the streets, into markets and osterie, reviewing every version of he who might have been there; the young man, the escaped killer, even him now. More than anything, he wanted some relief from the ill sense of displacement that dogged him. If he got lucky, he mused with a heavy dose of skepticism, maybe Florence could show him the answer.

He walked. Hannibal seemed to know something was wrong, but he didn’t press the matter. Will only felt his acknowledgment of the change, nothing more.

-

Spring had filled the trees with blossoms and new leaves. Above, the sky was a glowing, cloudless blue. Will skirted a group of American tourists and ducked down an alley, headed for home. It was the longest solitary stroll he’d taken yet. With stone buildings towering on either side, shading the street from the mid-afternoon sun, it was as if he was trapped at bottom of a ravine.

Reaching their apartment at last, Will tried to put the feeling aside. When he opened the door, the scent of baking wafted over him. The windows were open, letting in a cooling breeze. Hannibal was in the kitchen, arranging a tray of jam and pastries. The sight of him, there when Will had left and there when he returned, did less to ease him than Will had hoped.

“Perfect timing,” said Hannibal. “Only another moment for the espresso.”

“Thank you,” Will muttered.

Hannibal inclined his head and turned away to mind the machine. “How did you find the city today?”

“Full of tourists. San Lorenzo was packed.”

“Quite a far walk. You stopped for lunch, I hope?”

“Yes.” Will swallowed. “Sorry. I should have called.”

“No need to apologize. I’m well acquainted with wandering Florence to the disregard of any other matter.”

 _Of course_ , Will thought.

Hannibal finished the tray with two glass cups of espresso topped with foam. Will joined him at the table by the windows. As they ate and chatted quietly, Hannibal’s gaze wandered to the view outside. Light reflecting off the Arno illuminated his face. The affection there was apparent, warm and indulgent, his expression open and relaxed.

Will tamped down the absurd impulse to snatch the curtains closed, and seethed.

-

Immediately after breakfast the next day, Will left the apartment and stayed out until lunch. Instead of walking into the city, he climb the hills to the southeast for an elevated view. He vainly hoped the change in perspective might help dissolve his strange grudge.

Standing above Florence, his foolishness hit him.

When he returned home, he met Hannibal in the foyer, clearly on his own way out. Before Will could protest, Hannibal directed them both to the kitchen, sat Will at the bar and poured him a glass of crisp white wine. In minutes, he passed Will a plate of bruschetta dressed in fresh pesto calamari.

“ _Grazie_ ,” said Will.

Hannibal kissed his head.

“I have a few recipes I’d like to try soon, my dear.” He spoke into Will’s hair. “Something to think about.”

“Mm.”

“I was just about to leave for Sant’Ambrogio. Would you care to join me?”

In Will’s mind, an amalgamated image flashed: every instance on their walks where Hannibal had looked at a cathedral, a sculpture, a vista, with hazy affection in his eyes. All laid over one another, like frames from a film superimposed to create one still. A dozen heads and arms, always the same dulic smile.

“No,” said Will. “Thanks. I think I’ll nap after lunch. You don’t have to wait up for me,” he added, when Hannibal didn’t move. “We’ll eat together tonight. What is it?”

Hannibal’s face was still buried in his hair, scenting him. Instead of answering, he kissed the curve of Will’s skull, behind his ear, down to his neck.

“Checking for perfume?” said Will, restless.

“Yes. You’re having an affair with a wisteria tree. Did you enjoy Bardini? You must have had a stunning view of the city this morning.”

“It was lovely,” Will murmured.

“On the way there, you stopped at Carmine’s for a second coffee, their crostate are apricot with cardamom today.”

“I didn’t even buy one.” Will elbowed him, but it was like shoving a brick wall.

“You should have, they smell divine on you. You stopped again to pet a dog on your way to the garden. After your brush with the wisteria, you finished your coffee by one of the fountains and waited in the sun until the villa opened.”

“That’s true.”

“They waxed their floors two nights ago.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“And you have weight on your mind.”

“Just tired from the walk,” said Will. It was honest, but a deflection all the same; he felt the minute change in the air between them that signaled Hannibal’s internal recognition, like approaching rain.

To Will’s relief, Hannibal only kissed him a final time.

“I won’t be long,” he said.

He moved away, granting Will space. It wasn’t until Will heard the front door close that he let go of the breath he’d been holding.

-

The late spring night was warm. They had left the windows open but drawn the curtains, which drifted in the breeze and spread strange shadows across the room. Will watched their waving and caught glimpses of Florence through the sheer fabric.

He tried to picture what shades of yellow and orange would glow in the window if the city beyond were engulfed in flames. He imagined the rattle and crush of buildings as they tilted and swayed, licks of lightning striking tiled roofs; a hole yawning open in the center of Piazza della Libertà and growing until it swallowed Florence whole. What it would look like from the view he’d had at the Bardini that morning. He raised a hand, blocking buildings from his line of sight, and when he lowered it, they were gone. The change of the landscape entirely; a razed basin. Hannibal, with nowhere to look but him.

“Your thoughts,” Hannibal rumbled against his shoulder blade, “have the warm brass smell of an electric clock.”

“Is it bad enough that it’s keeping you awake?”

“It’s not a bad smell by any means.” They shifted and slid back together like the body of a single, coiled snake. Will brushed his fingers through Hannibal’s hair, and Hannibal’s hands skimmed down Will’s side, soothing. “What are you thinking of?”

“You,” said Will.

“Dream of me instead.”

“Alright,” Will huffed, a quiet laugh. “Alright.”

Hannibal’s breath evened out slowly, and Will’s attention hooked on the rise and fall of his body until the room went dark.

He dreamt of the waters of the Arno, rising.

-

When Will attempted his escape the next mid-morning, Hannibal caught him. “The weather is perfect for a walk through the Boboli. Would you like to accompany me? I’ll only need a moment to get ready.”

“Sure,” said Will. He wrung his hands until Hannibal returned, dressed in linen pants and a pressed white button-up and carrying, to Will’s bemusement, a whicker box slung across his torso by a leather strap.

“Is that a picnic basket?”

“It’s our lunch,” said Hannibal, taking his hat from the hook by the door. “I know a good spot. We’ll have another clear view of Florence today.”

 _Wonderful_ , Will thought sourly.

They walked along Lungarno Soderini briefly before Hannibal led Will down smaller streets, weaving toward the southeast. It was just as Will dreaded it would be: Hannibal taking in the city, every canyon of apartment buildings, each shop and trattoria, with obvious familiarity and adoration. Miasmatic discontent overcame Will at the sight, like a boil growing from the back of his head. With it came fantasies from the night before in a heat so intense he impulsively wanted to slink into the shade—he was too close to starting games. He needed relief.

“Can you be jealous of a city?” he said, desperately.

At the very least, it slowed Hannibal’s pace. He gave the street another long glance before snapping to Will with a rakish grin.

“You don’t want me to have anything in my life,” he said, “that isn’t you.”

Will’s breath left him in an frenetic whoosh. “I have more work to do, apparently. What are you smiling at?”

“The idea that your work may never be done. This is why—“

“ _Yes_.”

Hannibal gave him an infuriatingly doting look. “Would you destroy this place?”

“I’m considering it. I’ll blindfold you before our next walk and we’ll see then if I’m feeling more charitable.”

“We could relocate. We could return to Paris.”

“We can’t go back to Paris.”

“If it would please you, we could leave Europe entirely. We could travel the Italian countryside. You would find it charming.”

“And would you be jealous if I did?”

Hannibal turned them up a wider road. “If you so loved it. What you feel is what I would feel. We’ll call it jealousy,” he said, after a contemplative pause. “Looking back, I was jealous of your boat on the sea.”

“You took that away. Eventually. Or you wanted to. Why were you jealous? Because I loved it?”

“At the time, I wasn’t sure you loved it. To me it seemed as much a prison to you as Chilton’s cell.” He glanced at Will quickly, as if checking for Will’s reaction, before continuing. “Specifically built for your self-imposed isolation. Proof that you could be alone, as you felt necessary, and still find a degree of satisfaction with what you’d created for yourself. A piece of your own person suit.” He was amused. “Still, you cherished that space. You were protective of it. Even constructed as it was, it gave you something I tried to provide in the place I built for us.”

“Safety,” said Will.

“Yes. I would add now,” he broached, “control. I didn’t…appreciate the importance of that control to you, then. I had only wanted to give you, and myself and Abigail, a better life.”

Will searched for a bitter taste, but didn’t find it. “To build the new home, you had to destroy the old one.”

“I believe it’s possible to be jealous of a city,” said Hannibal, smiling again, “yes. Which brings us back to my question. Would you like to burn Florence, Will?”

They had reached Palazzo Pitti. Will took advantage of the moment to avoid question, and they strolled the garden peaceably, Hannibal withholding his usual commentary so Will could stew in his thoughts.

Knowing Hannibal understood what he felt, and hearing him say as much, brought some of the relief Will had been increasingly desperate to find—in the moment it felt like a car blinker momentarily ticking in time with a song on the radio. He wasn’t sure Hannibal was right about the consciously constructed nature of his old home— _Molly’s place_ , he thought distantly, _maybe not Wolf Trap_ —but he accepted Hannibal’s claimed perspective as true. He’d felt safe there, although at the time that safety relied on his own sense of control. Maybe it had been a prison in that way.

On the other hand, he had not expected Hannibal to be so supportive of this particular violent streak. The question left a coppery taste in his mouth. For the first time in quite a while, Will found himself reacquainted with the old feeling of keeping himself in check. Things were alright for now. They were still speaking in generalities.

Sighing inwardly, he put it all to the back of his mind and tried to enjoy the garden. It was close to noon, and there were far fewer tourists than Will expected, with only a handful of other visitors milling about, speaking quietly. Purple and white irises lined the stairs leading up to _La Dovizia_. The scent of fresh grass and sun-baked stone filled the air.

As with any place in Florence, Will could easily see the beauty of the place for himself, but at every turn was Hannibal treasuring the same in a manner impossible to touch. The ghost of him, a younger man, sat before each sculpture and fountain with an open sketchbook and a beatific smile.

When they reached the Kaffeehaus, Hannibal found them a secluded spot with a wretchedly gorgeous panorama of the city. Will glared while Hannibal spread out the blanket that came strapped to the whicker box. Once they were settled, he poured them wine and arranged one large plate with what seemed like an endless supply prosciutto, cheese, and slices of rosemary focaccia.

The view of Florence stretched beyond the buildings to mountains that faded blue, seeming to evaporate into the sky. From elsewhere in the garden, a chorus of strings sang an aria. Will gulped his wine and tried to imagine the shallow valley before them empty of anything but the Arno.

“I can see why you love it.”

“You don’t love it yourself.”

“I suppose any love I have for it exists in me because you love it,” Will dared.

Hannibal tore his gaze from the skyline to look at Will, who turned away to hide his relish.

“Tell me,” said Hannibal.

“Everything I know of it, I know because of you. Walking through the streets, I only wonder how many times you walked them.” He closed his eyes briefly, sighing. “When I listen to people in the markets, I hear your voice speaking in their dialect. I love what you love about it. Everything I love about it, I know you love, too. It’s too wrapped up in the version of you that exists in my head for me to love it on it’s own.” Will felt the press of lips against his temple. “You like that.”

“You know that I do.”

“You lived in this place before you knew me. You came back here without me. I can’t escape you when I’m here, even when we’re not together. You can.”

“Have I?”

“Yes,” said Will. “Maybe. You tried to back then. It feels like you do now, even if you don’t—fuck. It doesn’t matter.” Hannibal leaned to kiss him, but Will turned his face away, scorching with the thought that Hannibal shouldn’t _get_ to kiss him, but flooded with pleasure when Hannibal kissed his neck instead. “Did you plan this? Never mind. It doesn’t matter. You’re thrilled by the outcome either way.”

“You’re as unpredictable as ever,” said Hannibal, teeth against his throat. Pleased as punch.

“I could have predicted this.” Will squirmed when Hannibal slipped an arm around his waist, fighting the childish urge to push him down the hill. “Don’t so many relationships wind up here?”

Perhaps sensing Will’s ire, Hannibal backed off a bit. “If you’re feeling neglected—“ Agitated laughter burbled out of Will. “—we can leave. Do you believe my attention is so easily divided?”

“I know I can get your attention. I just did. You said you were—we’ll call it—jealous of my house, I believe you. I feel what you feel. Every time you look at a damn building all I can wonder is how I could possibly—” he grasped the hand still at the notch of his waist, too hot. “Look, I’m not asking you to stop.”

Hannibal seemed caught between the desire to give Will space and to smother him.

“Your little boat gave you security. It wasn’t enough for me to take it away from you, Will, I wanted to provide what it gave you. What does Florence give me?”

“Vitality,” Will said to the skyline. “Peace.” He gasped and tugged Hannibal’s hair. “Fuck. Look at me.”

Finally, Hannibal looked. His expression seemed an endless well of openness and understanding. Will stroked his face, tracing the soft skin under one eye with his thumb.

“You look at this place,” he said, “in a way I only want to see in your eyes when you look at me.”

“What I see when I look at you,” Hannibal told him, “is an affirmation of life I could never find in any city.”

Will expected to feel a puncture, a sudden release of the pent-up vexation he had carried with him for weeks—but it was more like a spill soaking him. He folded, collapsing ungracefully back onto the blanket, dragging Hannibal down with him.

Overhead was only a blue void.

“You said my work may never be done.”

“I said I liked the idea.”

“Impracticality is the only thing letting you be as pleased as you are about any of this.”

On top of him, Hannibal laughed. “Impracticality is the only thing saving this town from you.”

The weight of Hannibal’s head on his chest pressed the air out of his lungs. “You said—when you looked at me. You said you saw the future.”

“You, my love, are the future I saw for Florence.”

“This—Jesus, Hannibal. This is different. This is…”

“Escalation?”

“Out of bounds.”

“Only because we haven’t crossed this boundary.”

“Hannibal.”

“Of course the choice is yours,” he said, sounding somewhat repentant.

He shifted until his ear was over Will’s heart. Will’s fingers threaded through his hair, carding through the strands. The coppery taste was still on the back of his tongue.

Generalities. “If I destroyed it,” he said, “then you could never think of it without thinking of me.”

“Remarkable boy,” said Hannibal, cupping his ribs with one hand. “I’d never care to think of anything again.”


End file.
